


Vantage Point

by Whreflections



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Consensual Incest, Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Derek Hale Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Explicit Consent, Full Shift Werewolves, Incest, Infidelity Outside of the Ships, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Perceived Dubious Consent, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Dysfunction, True Mates, Uncle/Nephew Incest, past dubious consent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:14:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23169115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections/pseuds/Whreflections
Summary: As an adult, having learned more about his own kind, Derek's aware that his uncle and a man he grew up being told to fear are his mates.If he'd known that as a kid before everything went to hell, it might have all gone differently.He's not at all sure he's healthy enough for knowing now to matter in any appreciable way, can barely imagine fitting into what the two of them have already without him- but that's alright.  He doesn't have to know how it works.  They're both patient.  He can survey the lay of the land as long as he needs to.
Relationships: Chris Argent/Derek Hale/Peter Hale
Comments: 23
Kudos: 64





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MrsRidcully](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsRidcully/gifts).



> Alright, so. A few quick notes, then my sleepy ass is going to bed lol 
> 
> The non-con and underage tags are from an abundance of caution- you aren't going to see those things happen in this fic, but what happened to Derek with Kate is very much relevant to the issues he's going through in this fic, so they will come up. They're unpleasant, so I didn't want anyone to be surprised by that. References will mostly (and maybe entirely) be vague. 
> 
> All contact Derek has with Peter and Chris will be as an adult, and totally consensual- but given that part of that relationship does involve consensual incest, that's another warning. 
> 
> This is 6 chapters, and I'll actually (I'm 99% sure lol) be sticking to that. Chapters for this one are very specifically planned, and they're pretty short. Hopefully this'll help updates be fairly soon...partially because I feel like we all need frequent updates of things we enjoy right now. 
> 
> Miss R ❤️❤️❤️; this is all for you, and I hope you enjoy it😄💗

The first time Derek recognized the scent of wolfsbane that didn’t make him want to run, he was 8. They were on the couch in the basement, watching Aladdin. The setting sun had thrown light through the windows so Peter had put down the curtains, and Derek had nestled into his side. It wasn’t new, but after what his mother had been teaching him and Laura in her garden in the woods, it was different- he’d never had a name for Peter’s scent before, but now he did.

  
Wolfsbane and wild honey, strong and so rich he could sometimes feel like it stuck to the roof of his mouth, lingering after he’d hugged Peter before school.   
  
His fingers twisted in Peter’s sweater, and he craned his neck, looking up at his face lit red by the lava on the screen. “Why do you smell like that?”  
  
“Like what?” There had, for half a second, been a moment Peter had tensed, knowing. As a boy, he’d been small enough to assume it was because of the magic carpet ride his eyes hadn’t looked away from.   
  
“Like the flowers in the woods. Mom wouldn’t let us touch them—wolfsbane.”  
  
Peter’s deep breath moved his chest. The arm he’d held wrapped around Derek tucked him a little closer. “Because you love me.”   
  
“But no one else smells like that—Laura smells like flowers but it’s different; she smells mostly like pack. It’s just you; it’s heavy like—like when it rains-“  
  
“Maybe you love me differently. I am different, you know,” Peter said, his eyes flicking down to catch Derek’s. The blue seemed to shimmer in the low light before they flashed warm and amber, combining with the tilt of his mouth to make Derek giggle.  
  
“Yeah, you’re different. You’re weird, Peter.”   
  
“I am that. Maybe you love that I’m weird.”  
  
“Maybe I’m weird, too.” He never liked being left out- not if he could be counted next to Peter. It was the same at every meal, every game the family played. Every run through the woods.   
  
“Pup, you are the absolute weirdest.” At school, it would have made him feel wrong, but not when Peter said it. Peter was playing; Peter wouldn’t judge him for anything, so it only made him laugh. Peter’s growl only had him laughing harder, but they didn’t wrestle long. By the time he settled again, Prince Ali was going after Jasmine, and he was back in his spot against Peter’s side, face buried in his sweater and breathing him in. Wolfsbane and honey. He had a name for it, then.   
  
Looking back, Peter hadn’t lied to him, not really. He hadn’t even really shied away from the question, only given an answer that was unknowingly incomplete. Derek couldn’t hold not telling him the truth against him- it was easy to think in hindsight that if he had, everyone would still be alive, but Peter couldn’t have anticipated what came after. He was carrying a truth he didn’t think Derek was ready for- and that wasn’t wrong. Trying to do right by him hadn’t been wrong.   
  
All the wrong had come from Derek’s failures, not his. 

++++++

The second time it stood out, he was in the woods. The entire encounter had been minutes long, but if he really broke it down, it was painfully clear where he’d made his mistakes. 

He knew there was a creature in the woods; they’d all picked up the scent. He knew it would bring hunters. Still, he’d been stir crazy, and the moon was coming. He didn’t have basketball, and Peter was busy. Other than Peter and Laura, he didn’t really have any friends. 

The urge to run had called to him, so he took it, weaving out through the trees until his lungs burned, pushing past that point until he could feel them healing, actively fighting against the strain. It was so distracting he didn’t catch the scent until the wind changed—by then, they were too close for him to have pretended he didn’t know they were there, too close to hope they’d pass him by. 

He’d seen hunters before; he’d even seen Chris. Maybe he hadn’t been close enough, or maybe his senses hadn’t been ready to absorb it—that would have made sense, because he didn’t honestly understand it then, either. 

The roar of the bike between Chris’ thighs stuttered to a rumble. He wore a military field jacket, black, open in the front. The V of his shirt was open, too; Derek remembered looking. It would have been one thing to see that he was beautiful—who could have missed it? The taste in his mouth was something else. 

Wolfsbane, and blackberries; sharp and sweet like the end of winter. His chest was heaving, but deep breaths didn’t clear it; they’d only filled his lungs more. The weird flutter in his knees of wanting to bend made him feel like he could have gotten drunk on whatever it was, if he’d tried. 

The part he’d dismissed at the time had happened lightning quick, a second he’d spend hours thinking about before it was all said and done. Across the span of a few dozen feet, his eyes met Chris Argent’s, and he said Derek’s name. It wasn’t loud, but it didn’t have to be. The clamor of the wolf in his chest for a moment hit a fever pitch of strength—his eyes had to have flashed, but he was never certain of that, in remembering. The clearest feeling was half a second of wild, unbridled joy—like if they’d been able to separate, the wolf would have sprung from his chest and wriggled like a pup over to a man who could have skinned it without looking down. 

It didn’t make sense—it wouldn’t have regardless, but Chris had never given him the time of day. He only knew Derek’s name because of his mother; he didn’t even speak then beyond a handful of words.

“There’s something nasty in the woods; you need to go on home. Tell your mother to keep everyone in—”

“Yeah, and when they don’t all stay in,” Kate said from behind him, heard as background but half hidden, her bike suddenly flaring to life. She cut around her brother, a diagonal line. A fern spun up in her path, chopped in two. “We’ll know who summoned it.”

“None of them summoned it—” Even not knowing him, Derek had heard Chris’ exasperation, seen it on his face. He didn’t look at Derek, not for more than a glance. “I mean it, Derek; go home. It’s not safe out here.”

It all happened so fast. Chris pulled away into the trees, and Kate didn’t. She stayed, a pointed lingering, her eyes tracking over his chest like he was something worth staying for. 

He was so young; it came down to such simple misunderstandings, such dangerous mistakes. Maybe Chris smelled like Peter, like _wolfsbane_ not because the wolf loved him to the point of danger, but because he carried enough of it on him. Maybe it was so vivid for the same reason, or because he’d been around Kate. They were siblings—they were human, sure, but surely he hugged her as often as Derek hugged Laura, as often as Cora nestled against his chest on the couch. Humans and wolves couldn’t be _that_ different. 

Maybe his wolf had been happy because it could sense she was coming—a woman with wolfsbane on her scent and a smile that made his breath catch, a woman who looked at him like she wanted him. He’d never had that—he certainly hadn’t gotten it from Chris. 

Split seconds, and misunderstandings. What would have happened if he’d crept to the Argent house in the dark and sought Chris out, he’d never know—Chris would have almost certainly turned him away. Kate, on the other hand, had sought him out. For a fifteen year old, it felt like confirmation. 

It felt like love, until it didn’t. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think before this one it's important to point out a few things:
> 
> This Derek does not have any good associations with sex. He'd like to, deep, deep down, but he doesn't. He had Kate, and then he had some experiences with sex in New York that were similarly bad; in this verse the whole Paige relationship didn't happen. Basically, he's never been touched in that way by anyone who didn't have an ulterior motive- and even though on some level he knows that's not true for everyone, it /feels/ like that has to be true for everyone. Nothing going on between Chris and Peter is bad- but you're getting Derek's very skewed perspective from a point of view that very much isn't healthy. I'm pointing all this out because...well, because I probably would anyway, but the world is a weird place right now, and I get that this chapter could be difficult or uncomfortable to read, for the insinuations of what happened to make Derek feel the way he does. 
> 
> Basically, there is no dubious consent happening here, but if the perception that there could be would be upsetting for your brain, I 1000% understand that and it might be best not to read this one right now...but. I can promise that this Peter and Chris are both good boys, and there are 'tells' for that in here, too. If you want more details, just reach out to me and I'll be happy to give them to you so you can see if you feel like reading this chapter <3

Nothing about the loft lent itself to quiet—not that it would have mattered if they’d already been back in the house. For werewolf ears, the walls were thin anywhere. Growing up, it hadn’t mattered; there was no stigma around sex in the Hale house. It was natural, as familiar and accepted an outlet of affection as scenting. 

It wasn’t until he was older that he realized he never heard Peter—old enough that in his deepest, most private thoughts, he could admit to himself that he wished he had. At the time, he hadn’t grasped the truth behind it; he’d only known that while the concept in regards to anyone else in the family was meaningless, the mingled thoughts of sex and Peter made his skin hot. 

He couldn’t help but look at him—not when they lived together; not when nudity was a natural part of the full moon. He had seen Peter’s body more times than he could count, but he could remember the first time it was different, looking up from the porch and seeing Peter stripped down and walking out under the moonlight. He remembered the curve of his ass, the sudden jolt to his stomach at the realization that Peter’s cock was soft and still hung so much further than his own. 

The dizzying press of desire rose so hot in his throat it choked him; the wolf utterly certain of what it wanted—the thought of licking him before turning around to present himself to be bred slammed to the forefront with such force he’d felt his cheeks burn. Going back in the house and jerking off had taken the edge off, and still after he’d shifted the wolf had been different that night, antsy and eager to please, following Peter like a shadow. 

Instinct had been too much for him to fully resist, and as the moon was setting, he’d twisted himself into a pretzel to try and lick between Peter’s legs, thrown himself to the ground on his back when he’d lost the nerve at the last second. He was so eager, cock slipping red and needy from his sheath. 

Peter had cuffed him over the head with a paw, grabbed his muzzle in his mouth and shook it with a growl that mostly sounded like play. Still, he’d growled, and he’d swiped at him, and outside of good natured wrestling, Peter never did either. Not to _him_. 

Even the wolf could take a hint. The next morning, they ate pancakes together and didn’t talk about it, and Derek never tried again. 

Still, the attraction didn’t fade. He didn’t have to be naked, either; the line of his thick throat with his head thrown back laughing could make Derek’s dick jerk to attention. When he tried, haltingly, to ask his dad about it in the vaguest of terms, he’d laughed and reassured him that sometimes, it happened for no reason at all. Sometimes it didn’t mean anything, but that he was young, and too full of hormones. 

In the middle of the afternoon with a pillow over his lap and Peter sweating over the grill, Derek told himself it was random. In the middle of the night, he could admit it wasn’t. With his cock in his hand and the scent of Peter’s stolen jacket laid out beside him, he could pretend for a minute that it wasn’t so wrong as to be impossible. With his eyes closed and his head full of the wolfsbane scent of his uncle, he could wrap his hand around his cock and imagine it was Peter’s, his hips jerking into it as Peter took him from behind. 

He was 14; his fantasies were simple—the wildest fantasy he’d had then had been of his fingers twisted in Peter’s hair, his hand quick on his own dick before he came on his face, Peter’s mouth wet and red from sucking him. That, or Peter’s wolf on top of him in the dark, thrusting quick and hard into him, pushing deep until they were tied. He knew the sounds of it; he’d heard that particular startled yelp and moan, been given the reassuring speech that if he ever did it with a mate, it would feel good more than it hurt—and if it didn’t, they may not want to do it again, and he shouldn’t ask. 

In hindsight, Talia had to have known even then that he could take either role—she had to have. He’d wondered even at the time if she’d known he might be the one on the receiving end, but he’d kept his mouth shut. They were an accepting household, and not much was taboo, but he’d still been nervous at the thought of telling her he was bi. 

Like so many other teenage concerns, in retrospect it seemed ridiculous. 

He had wanted desperately then, with the fumbling urgency of anyone discovering their sexuality—but that was before Kate. 

After Kate, his mind didn’t stray to fantasies like it used to. He’d had reality, and it had been nothing like he hoped. Peter was in the hospital, burned and undying, utterly out of reach. He never responded when Derek scented him; that heartbreak drove so much of the past from his mind. There just wasn’t room. 

He went to New York, and forgot that he used to wonder why there was never sound from Peter’s room at night—or what those sounds might have been if he’d had the chance to hear them. 

After his return to Beacon Hills, and after Peter’s restoration, the amount of hidden history he’d learned could have filled a volume at least, maybe more. Given the rapid rate of widely differing information about his own kind and his own family that he’d started to gather, it shouldn’t have surprised him, really, that he learned about Peter, too. 

The quiet of his room in the past had only ever been discretion, and preservation. It was easier for Chris and safer for both of them to meet in a motel. Victoria could have stomached knowing he was seeing a prostitute, but if she’d known he was fucking a werewolf, she’d have skinned Peter alive. 

What she’d have done if she knew he’d _been_ fucking that same werewolf since he was 17, that he’d gone out back to smoke and kissed Peter the night of their wedding—more than likely, she’d have killed both of them. She certainly wouldn’t have let Chris see Allison. There would have wounded pride, maybe, but the hurt wouldn’t have been personal—their marriage had always been political; neither of them had any illusions on that score, but she was a hunter cut from the same cloth as Gerard Argent. 

The same cloth he’d molded around Kate. She would not have killed Chris for betrayal, but principle. There was little more dangerous than a fanatic—even to a hunter in his prime. Even to one in love. 

With Victoria dead and Allison old enough to bear his occasional absence, the old constraints on where Chris and Peter could meet had all fallen away. He could spend the night at the loft, here and there, and not be missed—Derek, on the other hand, couldn’t have missed his presence if he tried. 

In the open, high spaces that stretched between his room and Peter’s, there was little to shelter the sound even for human ears—his own missed nothing, not their heavy breath or the quiet morning conversations a lifetime of supernatural hearing had taught him to politely tune out into background static. Chris was fairly quiet, during, but Peter’s sounds were unmistakable—high and needy whines, low and punched out moans. A snarl, here and there, that skirted right on the line between thrilled and furious. 

It was everything he’d wanted to know, as a boy. As a man, it was more likely to drive him to pace rather than to make his cock fill, the chill of the concrete floor grounding on his bare feet as he padded back and forth. To hear him, Chris might as well have been a god of pleasure; the ring of rapture in Peter’s cries was unmistakable—but Peter was a liar; he always had been, and he was good. Derek had heard him do it without a tell to his heart—managing it with Chris so distracted couldn’t have been all that hard. 

It seemed on many levels the logical conclusion—what he’d envisioned as a boy was fantasy, a construct built on clouds. He’d had sex, with Kate first and then in New York, with Jennifer, and Deucalion. He knew what sex was like, and it wasn’t rapture. He’d felt the truth of it for himself—flashes of heat, marred by truth and disquiet at the best of times, riddled with distaste at the worst. He knew better, and for that the lie of it all grated on his nerves—

And still, the whisper of doubt he couldn’t shake would come to him in the middle of the night. Surely, _surely_ he had it all wrong. He had to. Down the hall, he could hear the two of them together, Chris’ breath heavy, Peter’s whines insistent.

_Fuck, oh, fuck, I need—I need you to—_

Whatever it was, whatever he needed, Peter’s sharp cry sounded like confirmation. It was the notes afterward that jarred Derek the most, down to his ribs.

_Hey, it’s okay. You can let go. I’m not going anywhere._

_I’m still not used to it. If I don’t draw blood, you get up and leave._

_You know I hated it._

_I know._

_Then you know I’d keep you with me all the time._

_Not all the time. I’d drive you crazy._

_You do drive me crazy. Pain in my ass. I love you._

_I love you._

Love and sex didn’t coincide, not in Derek’s experience—but in those same late hours that he’d listened for Peter as a kid, the uncomfortable possibility rose like a bubble in his mind that maybe he didn’t have any idea what he was talking about. Maybe he’d done it all wrong—because of Kate, or because of himself, or some combination of the two. 

Maybe Peter wasn’t such a liar after all. 

++++++

To his credit, Peter wasn’t oblivious. 

“As soon as the house has a room ready, I can start taking Chris there.” He spoke into the refrigerator, as if addressing the empty shelves and orange juice. 

Derek scowled down at his bacon. He hadn’t cooked it long enough; it flopped when he picked it up. “It’s fine.”

“We’d go to his house, and we can when Allison’s with Lydia, but—”

“It’s _fine_.” 

“Clearly.” 

Derek sighed, and dropped the bacon. “Seriously; it’s fine. You live here. I invited you to live here. He’s your—” _Mate_. The word stuck in his throat, too wrapped in complications. They’d had a conversation about this exactly once since Peter had been pulled out from under the earth, and it hadn’t gone very well. 

“My mate, yes. He’s yours too. You’ve made it perfectly clear you don’t want to talk about that right now, but he’d like to at least get to know you—”

“I’m not…refusing to get to know him, but you can’t just—come back from the dead and dump this shit on me; mom never said—”

“Because we were waiting until you were older,” Peter said. The fridge closed with a whumpf far too soft for the force Peter had put into the motion. “Is that my mistake or hers? Probably both, but believe me, Derek, we would have told you. I _wanted_ to tell you, I want to talk to you about it now, but—”

“Well I don’t. Okay? I don’t want to talk about it now; I want to figure out how to take care of my pack. I want to keep Isaac in school. I want to rebuild the house and put us in a position to look after this land like we’re supposed to and I—I can’t process this right now. Do you understand? I can’t—”

He hadn’t meant to sound so desperate, but it had bled into his voice anyway. He could hear it in the tilt to his words, but the scent on the air smelled like fear. 

“Derek.” Peter wanted him to look; he could feel it, not just in the air but through the pack bond—if he was honest, maybe through something deeper. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. So much about his life was upside down, but for better or worse, he was an alpha, now. He had to act the part. Crying over pity wouldn’t do. 

From across the island, Peter reached over and laid his hand over his arm. It was warm, so familiar and full of instinctive comfort that Derek’s throat closed up, his eyes with it. Breathing in, there was bacon and bread and butter and oranges, and wolfsbane. Honey rich, thick and filling his lungs. 

“It’s okay, pup. It’s okay. We don’t have to talk about it now. I meant what I said; if we’re bothering you—”

“You aren’t,” Derek said. His mouth felt full. 

“It just seems—”

“You aren’t bothering me, I just don’t understand—why lie about it? Why make him think it’s so great when he has to know—I mean, it’s an illusion. He has to know that. No one really—”

The sudden souring of Peter’s scent was so sharp it made his stomach roll. The jolt of it was instantaneous, a sharp wash of sorrow so strong that before he could stop himself, Derek’s eyes had snapped up to meet his. The blue glow of them _ached._

He hadn’t been wrong, before. He was in no state of mind to bear Peter’s pity. 

“I’m going out.”

“Derek—”

“It’s fine; it’s fine. I’m not mad and I’m not bothered, but I have to take Isaac to school.”

The elevator was halfway down before he realized he hadn’t even eaten breakfast, much less packed Isaac’s. At the bottom, he stopped and held the doors, keeping the car so Peter couldn’t call it back up until his breath was even and he felt like driving. 

One hell of an alpha he was turning out to be. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise, this chapter is the last rough one before things start to really look up for poor Derek- but this will hurt. warning for assumed non-con (that is 100% consensual), and also for Derek trying to push himself into something he isn't ready for- but there is no non-con occurring here, in either case. Derek's head is just a mess, poor bby.

To wrap his head around the concept of having mates, Derek first had to accept that Peter and Chris already had something together he couldn’t begin to understand—and where could he find his footing in that? He’d been assured of his welcome, but how could he fit, when they already did? For all that he was sure they could at times clash more spectacularly than he’d seen, they still fit together like undeniable puzzle pieces, a smooth connection visible to the eyes of anyone looking even when they weren’t touching. 

Their edges reached out for each other. Derek’s were broken. Peter disagreed, he knew, but there was no other word for how distant his experiences were, how differently he felt. They had come together to make something almost whole; he had bits that had chipped away. If he was meant to be their mate once upon a time, maybe that option was to lost him. Maybe it had been for years. 

The wondering played in his head daily, unasked for, and full of dissonance. It could give him a headache if he tried too hard to solve it, to feel out his own edges. Everything seemed an unknown, lately, beyond the certainty that he had no idea what the hell he was doing.   
  
When the elevator started to rise on the way back to the loft, the sounds he could hear above him didn’t seem wrong. Staggered breath and Peter’s moans were as familiar now as the distant scent of sex. The lingering hint of wolfsbane and blackberries had started to become a part of the background smell of home even when Chris wasn’t there. Of course Chris would be there; Allison was with Scott. He’d just seen them together. Whether Chris knew exactly where she was was a separate question, but it wasn’t a surprise that he’d taken the time to spend with Peter. The lack of restraint wasn’t surprising either—Derek had said he’d be out. Peter had no reason to suspect him; no reason to temper himself—and it was clear he’d been doing that, lately.

Derek had managed to dodge every attempt Peter had made to talk about either his fucked up head or the entire overwhelming situation again, but trying to work out how wrong he might have been on his own wasn’t really getting him anywhere—for a minute, that reminder was distracting, before the elevator rose almost level with the loft, and the sounds from inside grew closer, Peter’s voice sharp and clear.

_No, no, please, don’t; please—_

Everything happened so fast. Did he half shift first, or did he start to shake? Did his brain white out the rest, or did the sound of blood pounding in his ears drown it out? He couldn’t have said. One moment he heard Peter; the next he could feel a roar ripped from his chest. The elevator doors were wrenched open before it was fully level with the floor; his leap up and out barely registered. In throwing the door to the loft open wide, he felt his claws catch on the metal, scoring a swipe above the handle he wouldn’t be able to cover with paint. 

Peter was bent over the couch, naked, arms bound behind him with handcuffs and rope. Chris was dressed, but the bulge of his cock was obvious, pressed close to Peter’s ass. It was red, bright and uneven like he’d been hit, and for a moment the rage filled his throat so fully Derek couldn’t taste anything else—

Until everything tilted again as quickly as it had in the elevator, his mind and his senses catching up with his instincts. 

Peter didn’t smell like fear. He didn’t smell like anything but arousal and contentment—with a spike of alarm hitting quick and sharp, just before a single flex of his shoulders broke the rope and the cuffs. 

They were both talking together, overlapping.

“—not like it sounds; I would _never_ —”

“—Derek, it’s alright; I’m fine, it’s okay—”

The burn of shame in his cheeks hit almost as hard as the rage had. Sudden and absolute as the strike of a hammer, spreading out and going deep. The receding of his fangs left his mouth feeling empty, stupidly half open for a moment before he snapped it shut. His heart was racing in his chest, still, but the urge to fight had bled right out of him the minute he’d realized it wasn’t needed. 

He wasn’t a rescuer, just a goddamn fool. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. Low, and gruff, and still they both stopped talking. He couldn’t look up at either one of them. “I—I’m sorry.” 

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Peter said. “Derek—”

“Can we just forget this?” He asked, and didn’t wait for an answer. It was easier to go to his room without looking at either one of them—going back out would have meant facing the door, and evidence of his own absurdity. Collapsed on his bed and staring up into the dark of the ceiling, he could jam headphones in his ears and pretend he hadn’t just lost his mind over nothing. If he listened, if he _focused_ , it might make his mind go blank—because worst of all, a tremor had started in his hands that didn’t show any sign of slowing. 

There was no reason for it. He couldn’t understand why the hell Peter would have gone through with sex like _that_ , but his senses hadn’t lied to him—Peter hadn’t been hurt. Knowing that should have calmed him right down, but it hadn’t. The proof was in the tremor against his stomach, the flutter of his heart. 

_No, no, please, don’t; please—_

He had never begged; he’d always bitten his tongue. It shouldn’t have triggered anything. He’d never given her the satisfaction, not even when she’d come back that last year, not even handcuffed and hanging in tunnels on his own land where he should have been safe. She could tie him up and force him to bear anything she threw at him, but she couldn’t force him to show his throat. As a boy, he’d done it willingly, but she had never earned it; he knew that, now. 

He never begged, but with his hands still shaking and his shoulders sore from tension, he had to wonder if deep down, deeper than he usually allowed himself even to think, he’d wanted to. The fact that it wouldn’t have mattered was a lump that settled in his throat. Whether it should make him feel better or worse, he couldn’t decide. 

The end of the bed shook, just slightly. Derek opened his eyes to see Peter dressed and pressing on it, warning him before he sat down. Common courtesy, or self-preservation when dealing with an alpha who could snap at any minute. Either way, his eyes felt wet. 

Derek ripped the headphones out by the cord, and jabbed at the screen of his phone twice before the tinny guitar stopped. Looking down at his fingers on the screen was easier than looking up. 

“You didn’t have to come back here—”

“I did,” Peter said. Soft, and matter of fact. Almost normal, like his nephew wasn’t batshit crazy. “I did, and I wanted to. I never meant for you to have to see that—I should have heard you coming. I have before, but I was distracted. We’ve been careful to wait for when you were out—"

“Because I’m so fucking pathetic I can’t take it?” He sounded nearly as bitter as felt, brittle as glass. 

“Because you’ve been hurt,” he said. Firm, like a fact rather than a weakness. “With what you’ve been through, hearing me tell Chris no wouldn’t be anything short of traumatizing; I wouldn’t expect you to know I didn’t mean it—how could you?”

He couldn’t. In his own experiences, he’d rarely said no, and almost every time wished he had. Saying it and not meaning it was unfathomable—if he was pushed that far, he was desperate. 

“And why would you? If you don’t mean it—“ Derek coiled the cord of his headphones around his fingers, tight enough to feel the pressure. “Why would you put yourself through that? Did he—”

“He didn’t ask me to; I wanted to. If you want to talk about all the reasons for that sometime, we can, but for right now, it all boils down to the fact that I trust him completely. The same way I trust you.”

His voice was smooth as silk. While he talked, the tremor had stopped; Derek couldn’t place the moment. The cord around his fingers cut so tight the tips turned red. 

“There isn’t anyone else for that,” Peter said. “Just Chris, and you. I haven’t had your experiences, but I’ve had my own, and you know I don’t trust easily. So, when I say that I trust him not to abuse any power I give him, I mean that.” 

In the wake of Peter’s trust, he felt like an ass saying the truth, knew equally if he tried to lie his heart would betray him. It was already all over the place. 

Derek shook his head, and looked up. The glow of Peter’s eyes in the dark felt like balm, and drove the guilt deeper. “I can’t imagine trusting anyone that much.” 

The scent of hurt on him was only a note, not an overpowering wash. Bearable, almost subtle. 

“I know, pup. You don’t have to imagine it; I just wanted you to understand. He didn’t hurt me; he never would. I’m safe with him. I don’t doubt it, and I don’t want you to.” 

“I wouldn’t let him hurt you,” Derek said. It came out in a rush, unplanned, chased by a faint return of the burn in his cheeks. It tingled unpleasantly; he itched to get up and pace, and didn’t. “I may be a shit mate and I can’t argue I’m a much better alpha, but if he ever hurt you—”

“I know. I don’t doubt it for a second.” 

Peter’s heart beat steady, and maybe that wasn’t a surprise—he had, after all, ripped out Kate Argent’s throat. 

It was only after Derek had laid down that the rest came to him, a memory he’d allowed to dim. 

Chris Argent had pulled a gun on her, too. His own sister, and the minute he’d known the truth, he’d been prepared to pull the trigger—was it all down to his training, or was there more to it than that? Derek could ask, but honestly, he already had his answer. It was in Chris’ eyes every time Derek walked into a room; it had been there last month when the pack fought off a manticore. 

The sting to his shoulder hadn’t even gone all that deep; he’d barely had a fever, barely hallucinated. 

Chris shot it seven times. 

+++++++

To work himself up to try to seduce Peter, Derek took wolfsbane, and told himself there was appropriate poetry in it. It was the safe kind, soft green flowers that only made his fingers tingle a little when he crushed them up and dropped them into a tumbler of the vodka Peter kept in the pantry. He drained the glass until the flowers rested wet and limp on the bottom like tea leaves, and filled it again. Twice more, and he could feel warmth under his skin. A touch of unsteadiness, a runaway beat to his heart like a snare drum. 

It was stupid, utterly infuriating. He didn’t _want_ to be afraid; he didn’t even want to name what he felt as fear, but he couldn’t stop it, or deny it. 

Chris had told Allison about Peter last weekend. It’d be an adjustment, but she’d come to terms with his place in her father’s life—likely easier than any of them would have expected. She was strong, and resilient, and even grieving for her mother like she had, Derek doubted that the truth of their arranged marriage would surprise her. A truly healthy relationship couldn’t be faked—sooner or later, the signs rose to the surface. 

Peter’s place in Chris’ life was expanding, day by day. They made efforts to remind Derek of his welcome, and still, Derek couldn’t help but feel it was a window that would be ever closing. They had been something together for most of their lives—if he didn’t find a way in while that was deepening, now, he would be left too far behind to ever catch up. 

A few months ago, even a few weeks ago, he might have said he was fine with that. 

The way their scents mingled hurt deep in his chest, like a thorn he couldn’t reach. At dawn after the last full moon, he’d caught a glimpse of them as he herded the children back toward the skeleton of a house that once had been his home and someday would be again—Chris pulling a blanket out of the back of the 4Runner, wrapping it warm around Peter’s bare back and using it to pull him close against his chest. Taking his weight had looked like a relief, not a burden. 

So close to the surface, Derek’s wolf had wanted desperately to howl. 

With his nerves pruned low by the wolfsbane, he could take a chance, with Peter, first. He would be more approachable, familiar. If nothing else, it would be easier to bear if Derek turned out to be right, and it wasn’t nearly as good as his mates made it seem. 

He was as ready as he thought he could be when he made his move not long after Peter got home—ready enough that it jarred him to find Peter’s hand against his chest when he leaned in to kiss him, pushing him back. 

“No,” Peter murmured. The curl of his fingers in Derek’s shirt kept him from backing up, close, and distanced. He could just barely feel the stir of Peter’s breath. “Go to bed and sleep it off.”

“I’m not—it was just a little. I know what I’m doing.”

“So do I, and you’re not doing it. Not like this—your heart’s beating out of your chest, can’t you feel it?”

He could. 

Derek’s jaw clenched. He hadn’t expected rejection—and if it happened, he would have expected it to feel like relief, not hurt. 

“Right. So that’s a ‘no’ then. Okay—”

Before he could pull back, Peter was there, grip shifting to catch the back of his neck. The brush of his cheek against Derek’s as Peter scented him made him shiver. It didn’t feel quite like arousal, but it didn’t feel like fear, either. A jolt, like connecting wires. 

“Right now, _no_. Not a permanent no. If you think I don’t want you—the concept is ludicrous.” Peter’s mouth brushed his skin, feather light, just beneath his ear. “When I touch you, Derek, your heart won’t be beating like this—and it’ll be because you asked me to. Do you understand?” 

“No. I’m telling you you can now—”

“And that means nothing when it’s obvious you aren’t ready.”

Said any less smoothly, it might have felt like a slap in the face. Derek wasn’t entirely sure it still didn’t. When he stepped back, then, Peter let him go. With his hip pressed against the stability of the island, he crossed his arms over his chest. Under the buzz of the wolfsbane, he was already starting to feel cold. 

For the longest time, he could feel Peter’s eyes on him—he didn’t find his voice again until they shifted, Peter half turned to take up the bottle. 

“And what if I never am?” Derek said. The pressure in his head was so great, the wolf whining in his throat. He was absolutely sure that when he looked up, his eyes were red. “What if I can’t be ready, if I can never do—this?” 

“Then you can’t do it.” Peter placed the bottle back in the pantry, came back to the counter for his glass. “You know, not that I’m condoning this particular application, but if you want to get drunk, I have better wolfsbane than this.”

“But what if I—” Derek could hear the strain of his own desperation, painful and tight. It made him feel like a pup again—fitting, when Peter would likely never see him as anything else. “What if I want to be part of it? If I…believe in everything you told me, that I’m your mate, and his. If I want a part in that—”

“Then you have it—you already do,” Peter said. Across from Derek, he leaned against the sink and crossed his arms over his chest, a far calmer mirror. Derek felt seconds from flying apart; Peter looked as collected as he ever did, sustained power, reined in and held. “One doesn’t rule out the other. Sex is a way to fuel the bond, but it’s not the _only_ way. If it’s not something you want, then it’s not something you want. You’re still my mate, and his. That was decided before you were born.” 

If he believed in the old stories, Peter was right. It was hard to doubt them, seeing the two of them together, tasting the proof of their difference on the air every time he came close to them. He didn’t have to take it on faith; the proof was right before him. 

“And—” Derek’s fingers curled against his own arms, the tips of his claws extending until the sting grounded him. “—what if I do want it? I used to—maybe I can again, I’d like to, I just don’t know how—I don’t know how to get that back. I don’t know if I can, but I want it back; I want to understand—”

Peter crossed the distance in two steps. His touch landed at Derek’s elbows, slid up to shoulders and past to the back of his neck, one hand further to bury in his hair. The kiss he pressed to Derek’s forehead lingered. With its stretch, Derek could feel the settling of his heart, erratic and skipping, drifting down to a rate that felt almost normal. 

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Peter whispered. “Whatever you need, we’ll figure it out—just tell me you accept; that’s all I want. The three of us were meant to be together. You can smell it too, can’t you? You can feel it—even Chris can feel it; I know you can.” 

Rather than answer outright, Derek hid his face in the hollow of Peter’s throat. Wolfsbane, and honey. The smell soothed him like the alcohol hadn’t, deep and sinking, a coating for the acid in his throat. He wrapped his arms around Peter’s waist, and held on. 


End file.
